A Few Drops of Blood

by Jan Merete Weiss

  Natalia hoped she was right. She put in a call to Casanova and arranged for an officer to meet them at the church. He was to guard Keandra overnight. Someone would relieve him to escort her safely to the piers.

  Natalia and Angelina waited while she put a few things into a bag.

  “Hurry up,” Angelina said as Keandra pulled a few euros out of her purse and counted them up.

  “I need to leave something for my uncle.”

  “Okay, but you can’t write a note,” Angelina said, taking the paper out of her hands and crumpling it.

  They walked her down to the street, keeping her firmly between them. Minutes later Ernesto’s gorgeous castoff was delivered to the storefront church. The officers scanned the area for anyone too interested in them.

  A wizened nun answered the door. She was expecting Keandra and pulled her inside. Natalia explained she must keep the door locked at all times—admit no one unless she knew them well. A guard would be posted on the street overnight, and another would take Keandra to the ferry in the morning.

  Natalia described them. If anyone else were to come around, she was to call them immediately.

  “Thank you for helping me,” Keandra touched Natalia’s arm as the nun closed the door. “Bless you.”

  “What I can’t figure,” Angelina said as they returned to their car, “is why she would associate with someone like Scavullo to begin with? A beautiful woman, smart—what’s her problem?”

  “Her problem is that she didn’t want a shitty life back in her country.”

  “So she’d rather have a shitty life here?”

  “Probably thought she had it made, seeing the house and servants and cars.”

  “So foolish,” Angelina said.

  “Let she who lives in a glass house cast the first stone,” Natalia said.

  “Amen.”

  Natalia drove to the Piazza Gesu Nuovo and parked on a side street not far from Pietro Fabretti’s shop. Natalia realized she had visited the instrument maker just next door to Fabretti’s frequently with her cellist boyfriend, who swore by him, claiming he was the best in all of Europe. He returned twice a year to have the man lay his hands upon his precious cello.

  It was that man who one afternoon told her the story of the composer Gesualdo slaughtered in a room on San Severo a few blocks away. Gesualdo, wearing a dress, killed by his male lover. Gino had played one of Gesualdo’s cello compositions for Natalia when they’d first dated.

  Usually she and her ex-fiancé met for lunch or a drink when he was in town. The last time … could it have been a year ago? He announced he was getting married. She’d been surprised how much the news unsettled her.

  “You didn’t want him, remember?” Mariel said, after Natalia had burst into her friend’s bookshop, weeping. They’d settled on a flowery couch with two large glasses of wine.

  “You’re devoted to your job,” Mariel said. “He travels all the time and wanted you to go with him. Devote yourself to him and his career. Captain Natalia Monte, groupie. Recall all that? Cara mia, are you suffering from amnesia?”

  “Probably,” she’d said. “But he seems like such a grown-up compared to Pino.”

  “Trust me. ‘Seems like’ is the operative phrase here. They’re bambini, Natalia. Granted, some are cute—sophisticated, even. But bambini, nonetheless. The exception being your father.”

  “And I thought Lola was the cynic.”

  “She is. Me, I’m just realistic. Remember that Catalan poet I was crazy about when we were seventeen? When he broke it off, I thought I’d perish. Passion. It leaves a scar. Look what happened to Suzanna, to Lola.”

  In front of the cathedral, a forlorn guitarist played a familiar Scarlatti piece for a few tourists gathered around to listen. His tattered cap was on the ground half filled with paper euros and coins.

  Fabretti’s shop, Sempre Musici, was on the far side of the piazza. Natalia walked across. Two elderly gentlemen sat on folding chairs just inside the open door. She could hear them arguing the topic perennial with the elderly of Naples: Which native son was the better tenor—Caruso or Lucia?

  In spite of the heat, they were in suits and dingy ties. No doubt they’d grown up privileged and had led lives of comfort, idling and arguing. Idleness remained, the wealth had vanished during the war. In some way their lives had stopped then. Inside the shop time stopped as well.

  Peering through the window of the shop Gino once swore by, she noted the instrument maker working at his bench. She hadn’t seen him in several years. A halo of the sun played about the shadowed room. His hair whiter than ever … he looked like a monk bent over the stringed instrument that was taking form in his hands. Natalia sighed and continued on her mission.

  She climbed two steps into Fabretti’s shop. Records and crumbling sheet music were arranged on tables throughout. A catari played on the sound system. Its singer had a lovely, eerie voice. Natalia remembered her nonna had sung such a song while mending.

  Fabretti was perched on a stepladder pitched against the back wall, wielding an old-fashioned feather duster.

  “Giorno,” Natalia said.

  “Giorno,” he answered without turning around. “It’s Captain Monte.”

  “Oh.” He laid the duster on a shelf. “I’ll be right down.”

  “Careful,” she said.

  “Welcome to my humble shop,” he said, coming down and extending his hand. “Are you looking for something special today?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

  “Of course.”

  Natalia followed him into a small side room. CDs and records were stacked in neat piles on a desk along one wall, boxes lined up along the other. He pulled up two chairs.

  “Sorry these aren’t more comfortable. I need the space for stock.” He gestured toward the boxes.

  “Vinyl records?”

  “Vinyl, yes. You’d be amazed how many people still want the old long-playing discs and even 78s and 45s. How can I be of service?”

  “I’m after some information that might help determine your Carlo’s murderers.”

  “Is there some new development?”

  “That’s just it. I’m not sure, and I’ve come for your help in finding out.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I have a suspicion something is true, and I’m not even sure what it would mean if it is.”

  “A suspicion?”

  “About Ernesto Scavullo’s love life.”

  “Love life?”

  “Yes. That’s a polite term for it.”

  “About what goes on in his mansion?”

  Natalia nodded.

  “I’ve heard the stories, too. They make it sound like a Roman brothel.”

  “At the very least. Sexual orgies on a regular basis. According to what I’ve heard, he likes it the kinkier, the better. Males, females, animals. If he’s not participating directly, he gets off on watching. He directs the scenes, makes videos, posts them on porno sites. Were you aware of this?”

  “No.”

  “The need to advertise, almost as if he’s making a point. Hiding something. Have you heard anything?”

  “There haven’t been rumors to that effect. None that I’ve heard.”

  “No?”

  “I’ll make inquiries, discreetly. Give me a little time—a week? Come back and buy some music. I’ll treat you to a Tebaldi recording. Quite rare.”

  “I shall. Thank you.” She turned to go.

  “I should perhaps tell you something about Carlo.”

  “Yes?”

  “He, too, enjoyed the … how shall I put it—the sleazy, for want of a better word. One evening a few months ago, he turned up here in a blue velvet dress and high heels.”

  “ ‘Bagnatti,’ I said. ‘Have you lost your mind?’ He just laughed. Said he was mixing business with pleasure. Carlo was on his way to Forcella to cruise with the transsexuals there.”

  “What did he mean, mixing business with pleasure?”
<
br />   “I don’t know. I thought perhaps he was looking for someone in particular, trawling for material for his column. That was my impression.”

  “Thank you,” Natalia said.

  “Such a foolish boy. I miss him. Miss him terribly.”

  “We love who we love, sir.”

  Fabretti dabbed at his eyes as he saw her out. “Yes,” he said, softly.

  They wished one another a pleasant evening on the doorstep, and she departed. The patrol car was where she had left it, but someone had taken the opportunity to break an egg on its hood.

  Chapter 19

  The marshal’s secretary was doing something with the coffee maker. It spluttered and started to drip.

  She had a wedge of purple lipstick on one of her front teeth, an inappropriate miniskirt and a magenta push-up bra mostly visible through a filmy black blouse. The magenta heels seemed matched with the bra. Tacky, Natalia thought, but if dress up made the poor woman happy …

  “Would you like a cup?” she said.

  “Smells good but no, thank you. Is he available?”

  “Just a minute.” She flounced off.

  Natalia took one of the wooden chairs.

  The secretary returned. “He says, give him a minute.”

  Her cell phone played the theme from The Godfather. A moment later the intercom buzzed, and she pantomimed for Natalia to go in.

  Without preamble, Cervino said, “Suzanna Rutollo. Lola Nuovaletta. Another woman, unidentified. And a female officer of the Carabiniere. All four met secretly a few days ago.”

  “Secretly? Where did this conference take place?”

  “In a beauty parlor.”

  “Hmm. Maybe they were having their hair done. Are we investigating hair styles now?”

  “Carabinieri socializing with known Camorra is mine to investigate, Captain Monte.”

  “We hadn’t all been together in a very long while, Marshal. We went to school together as children.”

  “I don’t care if you played doctor together.”

  “You must have childhood friends, classmates. No?”

  “None who have pledged themselves to the Camorra remain my friends.”

  “How nice for you. I find friendships harder to discard. Or maybe you grew up in a better quarter of the city.”

  “You know the regulations on this. If you don’t take steps, I’ll have to report it to Colonel Fabio, ma’am.”

  “Do what you will, but keep clear of me and mine, Marshal.”

  “A threat, Captain? Must I report a threat, too?”

  “You’re insulting,” Natalia said and walked out.

  Back in her office, she found Angelina on her feet, pacing.

  “What?”

  “I was just sending you a text. We’ve been summoned to a bridal shop murder.”

  They rushed downstairs and commandeered a car just coming off shift. By the time they arrived, the street was already cordoned off by police, and people were pushing against the tape, craning their necks to see what was going on. The locals were bad enough, but they had no patience for the curious tourists.

  Natalia and Angelina identified themselves and were signed into the crime scene. A woman in a purple housecoat grabbed Angelina’s forearm and loudly informed her she was the designated mayor of the block and was going through to monitor the situation.

  “No, ma’am,” Angelina said.

  “What’s your name?” the woman demanded.

  “Angelina Cavatelli, Casanova Station.”

  “Your boss is going to hear from me.”

  “I am her boss, signora,” Natalia said. “What is the problem?”

  “She’s probably new, right?”

  “What is it, signora?”

  “We have an arrangement: anything happens on my block, the polizia call me.”

  “We are not the polizia,” Natalia said. “Officer Cavatelli is doing her job properly. That doesn’t include escorting you into a crime scene. Please excuse us.”

  Shattered glass covered the sidewalk out front. Inside the destroyed display window knelt Dr. Agari, collecting blood and tissue samples. Raffi, wearing little forensic booties, was snapping photographs of the surround.

  Francesca waved a gloved hand to Natalia and pointed to a large plastic bag propped on the sidewalk against the wooden frame. Natalia zipped herself into the hazardous materials’ gown, then slipped a pair of booties over her heels.

  “Careful of the glass,” Francesca warned as she stepped into the display.

  “Captain,” Raffi called out, and when she turned, the camera clicked loudly.

  “What’s that about?” Natalia said.

  “The higher-ups want some shots of our devoted men and women at work. For the public information office.”

  The dead woman was propped against a mannequin. The white, crystal-beaded wedding gown soaked in blood. Bridesmaids in teal lay on the floor around her.

  The victim was slender, no taller than Natalia. Blond hair in a pageboy. Blood spackled the hair, but her face appeared unscathed, eyes wide open. Death had not erased the horrified expression, however. Her scarlet lipstick was smeared, or the killer had slathered the lifeless lips with blood.

  “Killed after the dress-up,” Francesca said. “Slit throat. Here in the window, judging from the amount of blood everywhere. Not an easy way to go, having your wind pipe and jugular sliced through. Essentially drowned in his own blood as shock set in, and blood pressure plummeted. He suffered.”

  “He?” Natalia stepped closer and saw the shadow of a beard. “Fuck!”

  Francesca looked up at her friend, who’d gone pale. “You know the man?”

  Natalia nodded. “Pietro Fabretti. He sells music. Vintage, mostly. His shop’s around the corner.”

  Francesca repeated the information into her lapel microphone.

  “He’s a friend of the gossip columnist, Carlo Bagnatti. Paid for Bagnatti’s funeral, in fact. Sweet man.”

  “Any idea who might have killed him?” Francesca said.

  “Yes. Me.”

  “What do you mean?” Francesca touched her arm. “Are you okay?”

  Natalia nodded.

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Just then a commotion started. Someone tried to push through the police to get a better view. It was the lady in the purple housecoat.

  “I’m sorry. No one is allowed through.” A police officer had gotten hold of her sleeve. Finally he succeeded in pushing her back.

  “You get your hands off me! You don’t know me? You must be new.”

  “Signora … I’m sorry. It’s the rules.”

  “The rules? The favors I do all of you? Since before you were born. Fuck all of you!” The sweep of her arm included Natalia and Francesca as well as the men who waited to load the body into the gurney before she stormed off.

  While Francesca and her criminalists processed the bridal store, Natalia and Angelina used Fabretti’s keys to enter his music shop. It was as it had been the day before.

  Looking on Fabretti’s desk, Angelina brushed against a button on the stereo, and Mario Lanza’s voice filled the space with its golden tones. Despite several hours of searching, they turned up nothing. Natalia patted an antique violin he had on display and plucked a sad sound from its single intact string.

  Whatever Fabretti might have gleaned had gone with him into the next world.

  Returning to the bridal shop, they found Fabretti’s body bagged and still waiting to be collected. Natalia remained with the corpse. It was finally loaded into the morgue van and driven away hours later.

  Too crushed to deal with typing up the formal report, she turned for home. Halfway there, she stopped the cruiser and got out to walk along the waterfront.

  The Buddhists were right, she thought, about life being a wheel. Or was it more like a medieval rack? With joy and suffering traded off as the wheel turned, bestowing its goodness and inflicting pain in equal measure.

  Mariel was at
a concert with her new Milanese boyfriend. Lola didn’t answer her mobile; probably occupied with Dominick. Just as well. Contact with Lola was getting sticky.

  A man got up from one of the benches on the promenade and started after her. She continued on a few steps and pivoted, her hand on her holstered weapon. The man calmly crossed over to the buildings facing the harbor and turned to look back. He didn’t go into any of them. Just stood there staring—a short man, strong build—eating something out of a paper bag.

  Natalia drove back to the station. She turned the vehicle in and started home. A slightly taller male seemed to take an interest in her, too, and she ducked into a novelty shop. The clerk behind the register was engrossed in a discussion with a woman in gold stretch pants. Natalia studied the lipsticks and packages of multicolored hair bands and glanced out at the street periodically. No one loitering.

  She spent an even longer time reading the ingredients on a bottle of shampoo and finally took it to the counter. After the clerk rang up her purchase, she stepped out and checked the street carefully.

  Camorra spies were everywhere. The man roasting chestnuts. The woman on the balcony stringing up baby clothes stamped with blue and white duckies. The old man on a cell phone in the doorway of the barbershop. Even the antiques dealer dusting his yellow satin Victorian chair. All or any could be reporting her passage. She took a quick look behind her. Her pursuer was nowhere to be seen.

  To be sure she wasn’t being followed, Natalia proceeded to the corner and dropped an index card into the red metal postbox mounted on the wall: Her pretend letter went into the left slot as if it were destined for city mail, as opposed to the right, for every other destination. She listened for footfalls. Nothing.

  Closer to home, she saw her old logic professor and his wife, arm in arm, as they crept along the street. His wild hair was mostly gone. Hers was patchy, stiffly curled and dyed a strange shade that glowed the palest blue in the light of the streetlamps.

  Arriving at her building, she tried to calm her breathing. Luigina had put a mattress out on her landing. Once a year Natalia’s neighbor conducted an elaborate cleaning. Natalia stepped around it. Luigina was listening to a popular soap. The volume seemed even louder than usual. Natalia wondered if the dear lady was losing her hearing.